


The Prince and the Beekeeper

by Josselin



Series: Maze in the Garden [2]
Category: Captive Prince - S. U. Pacat
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:17:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1373620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josselin/pseuds/Josselin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Cousin,” said Damen, extending his hand in welcome the way he had when they had first met, though he did not stop there, and tugged on Laurent’s arm to pull him into a quick embrace. “I am glad that you came to visit.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Lettered for assistance with plotting, many great suggestions, and lots of encouragement!

Prologue  
(Auguste)

In the spring, breakfast was usually served on the terrace. But this season the weather had been unusually cold, and the servants laid out the breakfast spread in the family solar, instead. Auguste was idly inspecting the dishes on the sideboard when Laurent entered.

His brother was impeccably yet severely attired as usual. Laurent rarely wore jewelry – claimed when pressed that decorations of the body obscured qualities of character – and he tended toward dark colors. There had been a lavish party at the manor the night before, with music, wine, and dancing well into the evening. When Auguste had retired early with excuses about being a new father and wanting to see his little one, Laurent had remained at the party with a goblet in his hand. But there was nothing about Laurent’s appearance in the morning to suggest the type of revelry-filled lifestyle a young unmarried man of his age would easily be forgiven. Auguste sometimes worried that Laurent was too serious.

“Good morning, Brother,” said Auguste.

Laurent joined him in inspecting the sideboard, giving particular attention to the eggs. Laurent had an ongoing feud with the cook about herbs in the eggs. The head cook Niese was near ninety, blind, and had had full reign of the kitchens since before their father Aleron had been born, and she did not broke dissent about her culinary choices. Auguste thought that she and Laurent were fairly evenly matched.

“Are you ready for your trip to Akielos?” said Auguste, seating himself at the table and allowing one of the servants to place a napkin on his lap. Laurent sat across from him.

“Yes,” said Laurent. “I wish to ask you something before I depart.”

Auguste had a mouthful of food, but he raised his fork in a gesture for Laurent to continue.

"I would like your permission to marry," said Laurent.

Auguste swallowed his food quickly and wiped his face with the napkin. "To marry? What? Who are you going to marry?"

Laurent stared at the platter of fruit on the table and did not make eye contact. "Will you grant your permission?"

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" said Auguste. He considered his brother across the table and steepled his hands in contemplation. "He was only here for a few weeks. You don’t know each other very well.” The reasons stacked on top of each other for Auguste like stones piled into a wall. “Akielos is so very far away, and so different. And he's the heir, so you'd have to live there."

Laurent said, “If it is too terrible when I visit, then I will pretend we never had this conversation.”

"I worry about you," said Auguste. He did think that marriage might mellow Laurent a bit, but he had pictured a match where his brother could still live in Arles and help Auguste raise his daughter. “There are reasons that it’s traditional to have a relative negotiate your marriage,” said Auguste. “It is hard to be objective about your own best interests when you are so emotionally invested.”

Laurent said, “You know I am not ruled by my emotions.” Auguste watched his brother stir two precisely level spoonfuls of sugar into his beverage. Laurent was not ruled by his emotions, generally; Auguste worried that he lived too much in his head. Auguste did not always recognize in the young man the boy who had followed him around in their youth.

"Do you withhold your permission?" said Laurent, sipping his beverage.

“I thought you might marry a Veretian,” said Auguste. He had, in fact, enlisted Amelie in introducing Laurent to suitable young ladies with just that end in mind.

If Laurent had romances, he managed to keep them entirely secret. Auguste had thought that Laurent was deliberately hiding someone – a woman, perhaps, or a lover who would be frowned upon by the court – but then Laurent’s somewhat obvious infatuation with the Akielon prince when he visited two years prior had made Auguste question whether Laurent was as good at artfully obscuring his feelings as Auguste had supposed.

“Brother,” said Laurent. “You have not answered.”

Auguste sighed. It was impossible to fight with his younger brother. "Of course I'll grant permission. I only want for you to be happy."

"Good," said Laurent. He signaled one of the servants to refill his beverage.

"I suppose it is very timely to tell you that there was a private note for you amidst the official letters from Akielos," said Auguste. He sorted through the papers he had set off on one of the empty chairs and found the small sealed note for Laurent. He passed it across the table. One of the servants handed Laurent a letter opener, and he slit the seal, leaving remnants of green wax on either side of the paper.

Having determined that his brother was eternally a mystery, Auguste had turned his attention to the food and almost missed Laurent’s noise of surprise.

Auguste looked up upon hearing it, if only because it was so unusual to hear Laurent make any sort of exclamation. Laurent was not surprised, as a general principle, and if something was so unusual as to startle him, he was too composed to show it through a noise.

“What?” said Auguste.

Laurent’s eyes were fixed on the note, and his expression was one that Auguste couldn’t recognize.

“Are you blushing?” said Auguste.

Laurent finished reading the note and promptly threw it in the fire.

Auguste’s surprise was probably more evident on his face than his brother’s. “What did it say?” said Auguste.

“It was private,” said Laurent.

“Did he insult you?” said Auguste. “Is there someone else?”

Laurent shook his head resolutely and began eating without even complaining about the herbs Niese had included in the eggs.

“Are you still going to Akielos?” said Auguste.

“Of course,” said Laurent.

“Of course?” said Auguste. “But what did the note say to make you look so stricken?”

Amelie swept in to the room. She held baby Joie wrapped a blue blanket. Joie stretched out her arms to her father with a noise of pleading, and Auguste found himself distracted by his daughter from the mystery of his brother.

 

(Laurent)

Ios was charming, in a quaint sort of way. It had an aura of strength that emanated from the rough-hewn rock walls and the white cliffs looking out over the sea. The water was rough, and the sound of the waves pounding against the cliffs provided a constant accompaniment.

Laurent had been welcomed by the king himself riding out to greet them. Damen clasped Laurent’s hand warmly as he said the traditional words of greeting, calling Laurent his cousin in the way of royalty greeting royalty.

In the evening, they sat in the main hall. The meal was a celebration of Laurent’s arrival, with elaborate food served on small plates, dancers dressed in delicate silks, and a musician playing what appeared to be a small, oblong-shaped harp.

Laurent had read over the Veretian ambassador’s accounts of visits to Ios going back to the days of Agathon, and in earlier times visits often began with lengthy introductions to the king’s extended family. However, the current king had only one bastard half-brother who resided with his wife in the northern territories. There were no members of the court who approached royal status. Laurent was introduced, rather, to the king’s companions, military men who were older than the king himself, generals in their middle age who in their youth had distinguished themselves in war against Vere. Laurent could feel them size him up, take in his stature and build and dismiss him as an effete, and he contemplated whether it was worth relieving them of this misconception.

After the meal and the entertainments, Laurent asked one of the decorated dancers where he might be able to enjoy a breath of air, and found himself led to what the dancer told him was the queen’s private garden.

“The queen?” said Laurent.

The dancer recited a phrase that Laurent could not quite make out, but that had the sound of a song or a prayer, something repeated ritually.

“Pardon?” said Laurent.

“It is a prayer that the queen might rest peacefully,” said the dancer.

“King Damianos’s mother?” Laurent said.

“Yes,” said the dancer.

Laurent nodded solemnly, and thanked and dismissed the dancer as he stepped in to the garden.

The garden was small by Veretian standards, and entirely enclosed by the walls of the Akielon keep, a yard perhaps a quarter of the size of the main hall where the meal had been served. There was a pebbled walkway around the exterior of the garden, and benches set in to the wall of the keep and the garden so visitors could walk and sit in alternation. It was a garden in the old way of the word, filled not with flowers for decoration but with plants that Niese would use to over-flavor Laurent’s food. Laurent wandered past carefully separated plots of lavender, thyme, basil, and mint before encountering a plant he did not recognize and bending to break off a leaf and sniff it delicately.

He had not come out to the garden to meet Damen, but he was not surprised or disappointed when the king showed up to find him.

“Cousin,” said Damen, extending his hand in welcome the way he had when they had first met, though he did not stop there, and tugged on Laurent’s arm to pull him into a quick embrace. “I am glad that you came to visit.” Damen reached a finger out to stroke along the beard Laurent had been growing, the hair filled in unevenly across his cheeks and chin. “And you followed my instructions,” said Damen warmly.

The beard was at least good for obscuring the pink that flushed his cheeks, though Laurent thought that Damen might even be able to feel the warmth filling his face with his hand.

“I’ve started a new fashion amongst Veretian nobility,” said Laurent.

Damen smiled. “Of scruffiness?”

“I could have told you I’m not suited to facial hair,” said Laurent.

Damen cupped Laurent’s face in his hand, and laughed, warmly, and then slid his hand to the back of Laurent’s neck and bent to rub their faces against each other, as though he wanted to feel the brush of the short hair against his own cheek. “But you did it anyway, I’m so pleased.”

“Were you trying to accustom me to the barbarism of Akielos even before I arrived? I thought perhaps you lack sufficiently sharp knives…”

Damen laughed again. “I wanted to see if you’d do it.”

“It’s not that you require a pelt to be in the mood,” said Laurent.

“Come to my bedroom and let’s see,” said Damen, pulling gently at Laurent’s hand to guide him back toward the castle.

 

Damen’s chambers had a small antechamber and an airy welcome room with seating and an open balcony off to the south. Laurent could feel the breeze coming in from the balcony; the curtains drifted in to the room and then back toward the glass doors with the movement of the air.

Laurent was tempted to go and look out over the balcony, but Damen still had hold of his hand, and pulled him in the opposite direction through an arched doorway to the bedroom.

There was a woman in the bedroom without a chaperone. She was folding a blanket and laying it on the foot of the bed. She turned when they came in to the room, and lowered her head gracefully at Damen.

Laurent turned to look at Damen. Damen was looking at him with a contemplative expression.

“Would you be saddened to say farewell to this?” said Damen, rubbing a hand along Laurent’s cheek again to indicate the beard. Laurent shook his head, and Damen turned to the woman. Damen spoke to Laurent in Veretian, but he spoke to the woman in Akielon. He spoke quickly and quietly. Laurent had studied Akielon, and he could make out that Damen was requesting something, and a reference to what he thought was soap.

The woman nodded, and bowed again as she left the room.

Laurent took in the room. There was a bed in the center, laid with carefully folded blankets. There was a mirror and a dressing table off to the side, and a settee with plush pillows. Laurent’s inspection of the room and the furnishings was interrupted by Damen, who took hold of his face again with both hands, and then lowered his face to Laurent’s so their lips met.

They had kissed before, when Damen had visited Vere almost two years prior. Damen kissed him prudently, as though kissing Laurent were the only thing he wished, and his kiss did not reveal the other things that Laurent already knew Damen was capable of with his body. Laurent found his own hands settling on Damen’s waist amongst folds in Damen’s tunic, feeling the fabric in his hands over the warmth of Damen’s skin. Damen made a warm noise and stepped slightly closer to Laurent. Laurent could feel Damen’s breath on Laurent’s face. Their lips met again until Laurent was distracted by a noise in the room with them.

The woman had returned with a basket hanging over her arm and a basin full of water. She set the basin on the dressing table and the basket next to it, removing a towel form the basket to lay it carefully out on the table, and then arranging implements on the towel. A shaving brush, a razor, a small bowl of shaving powder. She took another towel out of the basket and then took the basket back over her arm. “Do you require assistance, sire?”

Damen looked over what she had set over the table, and shook his head. “No, thank you, Lykaios. Good night.”

Damen looked at Laurent with an expression that suggested Laurent was a puzzle to be solved. “Come here to sit on the bench,” said Damen, and when Laurent came over to straddle the bench facing Damen, Damen made a pleased noise at the height of Laurent’s face in relation to the table. Damen inspected the blade of the razor for nicks and found it to his satisfaction, and then turned to inspect Laurent’s face with the same intent focus.

“Perhaps we should call back Lykaios,” said Damen. “She has more experience shaving men than I do.”

“You are shaved by a woman?” said Laurent.

“Is that not how it is done in Vere?” said Damen.

“It would prompt accusations of impropriety,” said Laurent. “Not so in Akielos?”

“Given that she wears my pin, it would seem very odd to object to her tending my face.”

Damen wrapped a hot wet towel across Laurent’s face, which interrupted any sort of reply Laurent might have given. Damen turned back to the dressing table and spread shaving powder on to the brush.

He removed the hot towel and spread the powder across Laurent’s face, beginning under Laurent’s left ear and following to the right side. He concluded by leaving a dot on Laurent’s nose, so Laurent frowned at him, and Damen smiled.

The room was quiet as Damen tilted Laurent’s head to the left. His hands adjusted Laurent’s face in a proprietary fashion, as though Laurent were another of his things to be touched, like the razor or the fork he had used at dinner. Laurent watched the razor approach his face until he became cross-eyed, and then he watched Damen’s face as he worked. Damen’s left eye had a spot of gold on the inside of the iris. Laurent could hear the small splash of the razor in the bowl of water as Damen rinsed it. He was an arm’s length distance away from Damen and yet somehow felt as though he were closer than when they had been kissing.

Damen completed his work, wiped Laurent’s face clean, including the white dot left on the tip of his nose, returned to press Laurent’s face with a towel soaked in spiced water, and then used his palm to rub against the newly bare skin. Laurent felt sensitized, that now he could feel the texture of Damen’s sword calluses with the revealed skin of his face. Damen seemed determined to use his fingertips to ensure that he had not left any spots untended.

“You look now as I remembered,” said Damen.

Laurent thought his voice might emerge strangled, but it sounded clear when he spoke. “I am not scarred on my face by incautious shaving by a barbarian?”

Damen raised one corner of his mouth. “No, you are flawless.” He handed Laurent a small mirror from the dressing table so Laurent could inspect himself, but Laurent set the mirror down without looking at it.

“I believe,” said Laurent, “that you told me you kept ferocious animals in your bedroom.”

Damen hooked a finger in one of the laces of Laurent’s tunic up at his shoulder. Laurent could feel the fabric pull tighter along his arm as the sleeve constricted from the pressure of the laces. Laurent felt as though his chest were tightening along with the pressure of the fabric on his arm. “Ah, yes,” said Damen. “I must confess that was a lie.”

“And I traveled all of this distance to see a narwhal,” said Laurent. Damen had left the left sleeve of Laurent’s tunic pulled tight and turned his attention to unlacing the right side.

“Tell me of your feelings,” said Damen.

“I feel you have lured me here under false pretenses of seeing a ferocious fish,” said Laurent.

Damen said, “Do you think you could forgive me, Cousin? I am fond of you and wished so much for you to visit. Can you find any fondness for me in return?”

“I let you near my neck with a blade, didn’t I?” said Laurent.

Damen’s dropped his finger to the wrist of Damen’s sleeve and pulled open the tie. “Your clothing – is it also to preserve propriety?”

“I –" said Laurent, but Damen did not actually seem interested in Laurent’s reply, since he silenced it with his lips and pulled Laurent over to the bed.

Damen undressed him slowly, as though each layer of clothing were a separate course of an elaborate meal and he refused to be rushed to the dessert. When they were both naked, Damen covered Laurent’s body with his own on the bed. Laurent relaxed, slightly. Damen again kissed him with the same feeling of prudence, as though they might kiss forever and the touch of their skin on the rest of their bodies was not an inherent promise of more.

“I do not need to be lured with sweetness,” said Laurent, as Damen had turned the attention of his lips to the curve of Laurent’s ear.

“I like sweetness.” Damen kissed Laurent again, as though he refused to be rushed. “I like you,” said Damen. “I like that you came to Akielos. I like you here, in my bed.”

“I am not sweet,” said Laurent, and Damen captured his lips again with a noise of disagreement, and Damen supported himself with one arm and used the other hand to stroke both of them together to climax.

 

Laurent did not know what was to happen, after. Damen played manservant and fetched a towel from the basket that had been left by the woman earlier, and after a cursory cleaning of each of their bodies, fell asleep without any further instruction and with an arm slung across Laurent’s torso. Laurent considered leaving and finding a servant who could direct him to whatever rooms he had been allotted as a guest. Presumably that was where his trunks had been taken. He assumed, at least, that he had been allotted separate rooms as a guest. He supposed he could ask the servant after his things, rather, and then if the trunks were elsewhere, he could go to them without that seeming odd, and if there was no other place for him, he could have the trunks brought to him here. It was not strange to want to have access to the things that he had brought with him, or to know where his own manservant and guards were.

The candle sputtered out as it burned down to the base, and the room was lit only by the moonlight filtering in through the curtain.

He eased his way out of the bed and collected his clothing, dressing quickly. He found the woman in the antechamber, sleeping on a pallet, but she awoke upon hearing his footsteps, and her movement was dance-like, from the surprised way she arose from the pallet to the way she collapsed back into obeisance upon recognizing him.

“I am seeking—" Laurent was uncertain that was the right word for a thing and not a person, but his grasp of Akielon was not as good as Damen’s Veretian –“my baggage, can you show me where it is?”

“Of course, your grace,” the woman agreed, and she stood up and took a candle out of an alcove in the wall and lit the taper from the fire before opening the door and gesturing for Laurent to follow her in to the hallway.

She led him through the hall. Laurent could see that her nightdress was closed with a golden pin. Damen might have gestured to the pin on her person; Laurent was not so bold, and indicated the place it laid on her on his own chest, and nodded at it. “That is very good,” he said. “Does it have a purpose?”

“My pin? It is beautiful,” she corrected him.

“Beautiful, yes,” said Laurent, sounding out the word. “Is it a gift?”

“It marks those who serve the royal house,” she said, sounding as though this were the type of knowledge most people acquired in childhood. “Only those most distinguished in training receive can serve royalty. A pin shows whether you serve the king, or the former king, or the king’s brother.” She paused for a moment. “There are two slaves still in service who served the former queen, also.”

“I see,” said Laurent. “Do you train extensively, then?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Our whole lives.” She halted in front of a wooden door. “These are the quarters your grace has been assigned. There are two rooms. Your men will be to the left, your things to the right.”

“Thank you,” said Laurent. She nodded, the gesture somehow wordlessly implying that it was nothing. She handed the candle to Laurent, and left sure-footedly down the hall in the dark. Laurent watched her walk down the hall and suddenly realized she was probably returning to Damen’s chambers. He wondered if she would stay in the antechamber or enter the vacated bedroom and curl into the spot that Laurent had recently left behind.

 

Laurent decided the next morning to explore the market and the village. He took Orlant with him. Orlant was of the opinion that it would be more practical to tell their hosts where they were headed, and he had served Laurent long enough that he protested even after Laurent shook his head. So Laurent took him under duress. It was easy enough to find their way out of the keep by following the corridors to the courtyard and then following a woman with a pail out a side door. She turned off to the right to what must have been a well, but the keep was set above the city, so Laurent and Orland headed down the steps through the town.

It was bright, even in the morning sun, and women washed in their small yards without sleeves and with cloth wrapped around their heads. Laurent nodded at one of the head coverings and spoke to Orlant. “Do you think that would work for me as a disguise,” he said.

Orlant eyed the woman and then looked back at Laurent, and just shook his head as they continued through the street. They could start to hear the noise of the market. The market square was perhaps three times the size of the courtyard at Arles, and filled with seemingly as many people as there were brick pavings. The wooden stalls were set up with narrow aisles between them for the shoppers to pick their way through carefully with their baskets, occasionally all of the people pressing up against each other and the precarious stall walls when a cart or an animal pushed through.

Many of the stalls sold food. Laurent walked past many stalls offering fresh and dried fruit, green vegetables and tubers, ropes of onions and garlic suspended from a pole, open boxes and sacks of numerous varieties of grain, amphorae of oil or wine or olives. Other stalls sold prepared food, bread and pastries wrapped in paper, meats prepared and served on small wooden skewers. Others of the stalls sold goods – basic items one might need from a blacksmith, glasswork and beads, inks and paper and leather-bound journals.

Laurent took in what there was to see and hear and smell, and shook his head at offers of samples to taste or enticements to bargain by the marketers. Orlant, who spoke even less Akielon than Laurent did, became embroiled in some sort of impassioned debate between two women about which of their pastries were better, as they attempted to recruit him to judge between them. Orlant seemed to think this was an enviable task; Laurent suspected that there was no winner when Orlant would eventually choose.

He was facing down the hill and away from the keep when Damen approached, and he could sense Damen’s arrival even before he turned from the way the noise of the market shifted, first hushing, somehow, in awed notice of their king joining them, and then buzzing with an even greater excitement.

Marketers nodded respectfully and smiled at Damen as he came through the market, stepping carefully at one point to avoid a toddler who had wandered out in to the path, and then bending carefully to scoop up the errant toddler and hand him back to his grateful and embarrassed mother. Damen nodded back at the villagers, waving at children. A group of boys playing a game with a leather ball tossed it to Damen, and he caused them all to laugh delightedly when he caught it easily and threw it back to them lightly.

One of the men selling fruit offered Damen a pear, and he accepted with thanks, and then he stood in front of Laurent and offered the pear on to Laurent. “You were not at breakfast,” said Damen.

“Are you civilized enough to eat breakfast?” said Laurent, affecting surprise. “I had such low expectations.”

Damen took the pear back from Laurent’s hand and bit into it himself, smiling and throwing his other arm over Laurent’s shoulders. He was dressed in typical Akielon fashion in a tunic, and his arm was bare.

The market seemed to settle into the same hum of business that had been there before Damen had temporarily interrupted it with his arrival. “I thought to show you the sites, but you have already seen some of them,” said Damen. He took another bite of the pear, and then it up to Laurent’s mouth. Laurent thought of it, for a moment, of placing his lips against the skin and flesh of the fruit where Damen’s own lips had just been, and then he shook his head, and Damen shrugged a little and finished the fruit himself.

Damen guided him through another aisle of the market, pointing out with casual pride some of the craftsmen or local food delicacies. They stopped to admire the work of a particularly talented ironmonger for a few minutes, and then came across a woman selling a sauce made of fermented fish. The smell caused Laurent to wrinkle his nose but Damen insisted the sauce was excellent when served with custard and berries.

“The sun addles your taste,” said Laurent, staring disturbed at the amphora packed with salt crystals and small fish that the merchant had opened to explain the process of making the sauce. The merchant, who did not speak Veretian, smiled encouragingly at Laurent. The fish seemed to be staring up at Laurent with beady dead eyes, and he stood up and shook himself as though that could remove the image.

“It is very good,” said Damen, nodding encouragingly at the merchant and making noises of enjoyment. The merchant nodded excitedly back. Laurent wondered what would happen if he sent an amphora of the stuff to Niese. The cook might either topple over dead of shock, or, worse, share Damen’s taste for the stuff and start putting it on everyone’s eggs.

“Help me pick a gift for my niece,” said Laurent.

“How old is she?” said Damen.

“She was born at midwinter,” said Laurent.

Damen frowned. “I have little experience with babes so young,” he said. There was a woman shopping near them with two children, one a plump babe somewhat older than Joie strapped to her back, the other a young boy standing by her sandal and clinging to her tunic.

Damen squatted down next to the boy, who pressed his face into his mother’s tunic for a moment before peeping his eyes out. Damen regarded him with a very serious face. “We need to find a present for a babe the age of your sister,” said Damen to the little boy. “What types of things does your sister like?”

The boy hid his face in his mother’s tunic again, and then, as his mother took in the conversation that was happening and ruffled his hair encouragingly, he poked his face out. “She cries,” he said to Damen.

“Does she,” said Damen, frowning as though this were a significant problem of state.

The boy nodded seriously. “She likes her fox.”

“A fox?” said Damen.

The boy nodded again.

Damen looked puzzled, and glanced up at the boy’s mother, who helped him by tugging a piece of cloth out of the bundle of the babe and holding up a stuffed fox made of soft fabric. Damen turned back to the boy. “A fox, I see. That is a very good idea, thank you very much for the assistance.”

He stood again and turned to Laurent. “The seamstresses tend to be over near the north side, let me show you,” and Laurent followed and Damen took them off through the market again.

 

The plush fox was tucked in to Laurent’s trunk when he retired that evening, and he sat at one of the tables in the rooms he’d been given and thought of what to write to Auguste.

Once again, Laurent found that he could sense Damen’s approach before he arrived by the commotion that he caused, which was this time amongst Laurent’s guards in the other room. Laurent kept his eyes on his letter and listened to the noise from the other room. He could hear Damen’s voice, and then Jord, and Damen again, the walls thick enough to muffle the words but enough for Laurent to make out the speakers. Then there was the door. Damen closed the door behind him, apparently having either convinced Laurent’s guard that he meant Laurent no harm, or dispatched them all neatly with no screaming.

Laurent said as much.

“Bare-handed,” said Damen, assuming a smug expression.

“Without mussing your tunic,” said Laurent.

“It is true skill,” said Damen, crossing the room. He took in Laurent writing a letter with a glance, and then sat down next to Laurent on the same bench, facing away from table and the letter. Damen sat for a moment, looking at Laurent and not doing anything.

Laurent let his own eyes wander over Damen obviously, drifting down to his lap and then lazily back to his face. “Did you come here of a purpose?” said Laurent.

Damen let his own eyes travel in response. Laurent held himself quite still as Damen’s eyes traced back up.

“You…haven’t shaved,” said Damen, finally, reaching out to brush the back of his hand across Laurent’s cheek, feeling the fine bristle.

“Since yesterday,” said Laurent.

“Because I told you not to,” said Damen, as though a realization was coming to him. “I meant until you arrived, not forever.”

“Men with fair hair do not have to shave as often as you brutes,” said Laurent.

Damen nodded. “I shaved again this evening so as not to redden you overmuch.” He took Laurent’s hand and tugged it to his own cheek, as though to prove this statement to Laurent, and Laurent didn’t breathe for a moment, taking in the presumption of that statement.

“Is it true that fighters shave their entire bodies before they enter the ring?” said Laurent.

Damen did not seem interested in discussing that, he was rubbing Laurent’s face as though the texture were as pleasing to him as the babe they had seen earlier that day found the soft plush fox.

“I like this,” said Damen, intent on Laurent’s face. He turned his attention to look around the room, suddenly, “I would shave you again.” But there were not the right tools in the room and Damen seemed not inclined to send for someone.

“Right now?” said Laurent, and he found something in the tone of his own voice unrecognizable.

“No,” said Damen. “First I plan to touch your face with every span of skin that I have.”

“You are not as fair,” said Laurent. “Your skin will not redden in the same fashion.” Damen made a noise that was somehow not discouraged, having moved from having his hand on Laurent’s face to pressing Laurent’s cheek up the line of his inner arm.

Laurent arched his neck to rub his cheek along Damen’s arm like a cat stretching against a brush. He reached his own hand out to rest on Damen’s thigh, feeling the muscle flex through Damen’s tunic as he touched it. “Every span?” said Laurent.

Damen nodded stubbornly. Laurent moved his hand suggestively, as though to say, this part also? Damen nodded again. “Kneel,” said Damen, removing his own brooch and shedding his tunic without getting up from the bench.

Laurent hesitated. Damen caught his fingers in Laurent’s hair, making Laurent again feel like a cat. Damen guided Laurent’s head down, and there was a moment, where Laurent could have slipped, cat-like, out of the grasp and a step away. But he did not, and let himself fold in a dance-like move similar to the one the slave woman had used earlier that day, and he ended on his knees pressing his cheek along Damen’s bare thigh, feeling the brush of the coarse hair against his face. Damen groaned, pleased, tangling his fingers in Laurent’s hair.

“Do you not want to fuck?” said Laurent, and Damen’s fingers tightened, pulling Laurent’s hair slightly against his scalp.

“I want your mouth,” said Damen, using the hand not in Laurent’s hair to open Laurent’s mouth and tip Laurent’s chin down so Damen could guide himself in. And there was no further talk of shaving.

 

Damen did not seem to feel obliged to traipse out of Laurent’s room in the dark of the night. In the morning, Damen woke Laurent with the feel of Damen’s stubble on Laurent’s thigh as he burrowed under the thin linen blankets.

Laurent thought that Damen’s interest might be in flipping him over, after Damen had assured Laurent of Laurent’s own pleasure. Damen crawled up his body and emerged from under the blankets to kiss Laurent, and he rutted gently against Laurent’s thigh without pressing for anything further.

 

Damen led Laurent to the baths. Damen stripped unselfconsciously and Laurent remembered again that Akielons fought nude in their games. Damen immersed himself in the pool and emerged again sputtering, accepting soap and oil and a small towel off of a tray held out to him by one of the attendants. Another one of the attendants—it was a dark-haired woman, she did not wear the lion-headed pin—approached Laurent and made to help him with unlacing his clothing.

Laurent had not been helped by a woman to undress since his mother had died. This woman was nothing like his mother. Damen was fully comfortable, relaxing in the bath and enjoying having soap massaged on to his back by the other woman, who stood behind him in the bath. Her tunic was wet where the bottom inches of it hit the pool, and it floated around her like a lily pad. Laurent could see that she was wearing no other clothing under it.

The dark-haired woman finished helping him undress—Laurent had not fully laced all of his clothes between the bedroom and the baths in the first place, and she took his clothing off to fold it carefully and set on a shelf. Laurent stepped in to the water, and observed that the other attendant had returned to bring Damen a tray of shaving implements, which she set next to the side of the pool.

“Come here,” said Damen, looking at Laurent.

Laurent took three steps through the water toward Damen. Damen reached out a hand toward him. “Send them away,” said Laurent.

“Leave,” said Damen, pitching his voice for the attendants even as his eyes didn’t leave Laurent. Laurent could hear their feet on the tile as they exited.

 

They breakfasted after they bathed, and then Damen took Laurent on the guided tour he had intended for the day before, prior to Laurent’s interruption of the schedule by visiting the marketplace with Orlant.

They climbed on the top of the ramparts so that Laurent could take in a view of the entire keep, the village, and the cliffs and the ocean all from one vantage point. They watched a bird circle an invisible point on the water and the swoop down to emerge back up with a fish clutched in her claws. “There a famous ode about a watchman whose post was in this spot,” said Damen.

“Sing it,” said Laurent.

“No, no,” said Damen. “That would please no one. But if you wish to hear the ode we could ask one of the slaves to perform it.”

Damen continued the tour down from the ramparts. They went next to the stables.

In Vere, horses were distinguished by their lineage and their breed. Laurent’s horse, for example, was a gift from Auguste and descended from a line of horses that had served the Veretian royal family for longer than anyone could remember.

In Akielos, Damen and the stable master seemed to consider the lineage of a horse irrelevant in comparison to the attributes of the horse and the type of work the horse was suited for. The stables included two destriers, half a dozen coursers, chargers suitable for war, palfreys for riding, carthorses.

The stable master’s name was Euphemios and the man seemed to enjoy this opportunity to show off, having stable boys bring horses into the paddock and pointing out comparisons in stance and coloring. Damen was an appreciative audience, stroking horses soothingly and praising the Euphemios’s achievements.

The tour continued in the viewing gallery, where the slave master Adrastus had arranged his wares. There were a dozen men and women arranged for inspection. They wore golden collars and wrist-cuffs, some inset with rubies or emeralds. Several wore a lion-headed golden pin. They were mostly naked and draped with thin transparent silks to highlight their coloring.

They were posed in a stylized fashion, arranged each individually to highlight physique and also to make a pleasing group formation. When the king arrived they bowed, prostrating themselves on the floor, and then reassuming some of the forms as Adrastus directed them.

Damen allowed Adrastus to show off the slaves in the same fashion Euphemios had demonstrated the horses. One of the men rubbed his head affectionately against Damen’s chest in the same fashion that one of the horses had nudged him. Damen pressed a light kiss onto his forehead absently.

Laurent turned to one of the women who was wearing the lion-headed pin. “What is your name?” he said. She had the same characteristic southern coloring as Damen did.

“Melitta, your highness,” she said.

“Where were you born, Melitta?” said Laurent.

“Here in Ios, your highness,” said Melitta.

Adrastus had observed Laurent’s interest in Melitta and was hovering anxiously. “Melitta’s mother was a favorite of the late king,” he said.

“So you are not entirely ignorant of the notion of pedigree tracking,” said Laurent. “I think I have had enough touring for today.”

Damen reached out a hand toward Laurent. It shone with golden oil that one of the slaves had been rubbed with that had spread on Damen’s hand when he touched the slave. “Please, Cousin,” said Damen. “I should like to show you another place.”

Laurent clasped his hands behind his back. “Fine,” he said.

Damen took them through the keep, talking as they walked through the corridors about Akielon history, and the ancient practice of the king awarding status to his chosen consort before proposing. The intent, Damen explained, was that the recipient of the king’s favor was not over-awed by the honor accompanied by the status such a marriage would entail by making the status offer separately, and not contingent upon agreeing to the marriage. “It has changed in recent generations,” said Damen, “as the last few kings have married consorts already in possession of titles, and of temperament not like to be over-awed. Instead, the new tradition is to make a gift of a private space. So my father gave my mother her garden, or my grandmother had a shrine out by the olive groves.”

They had reached the library. There was a slave outside the door who bowed as they passed. Damen did not appear to notice. Laurent couldn’t tell if the slave wore a pin or not.

Damen opened the door to the library, looking slightly apprehensive. He gestured for Laurent to enter first.

The room was beautiful. The back wall was made up of large windows, so it was welcomingly bright. Much of the collection of books was clearly very old, but Damen showed Laurent how he had been working to expand the collection more recently on one of the north-facing shelves. “I’ve commissioned a scribe to produce more volumes,” said Damen.

Laurent bent over the open volume on the table; it was a philosophical treatise by the same author they had discussed during Damen’s visit to Vere. “A paper on freedom,” said Laurent.

Damen held out his hands. “I have pictured that this library might be my present to my fiancé.”

“Do you have other bastard half-siblings in your harem?” said Laurent.

“What?” said Damen, dropping his hands to his sides.

“I knew you had a bastard half-brother, I did not realize there were sisters also. Did you send your brother away because he was not to your tastes?”

“What are you talking about?” said Damen.

“Are you going to tell me that you and Melitta do not share a father?” said Laurent.

Damen was staring at Laurent as though he didn’t understand the language Laurent was speaking.

“Do you have your own crop of bastards?” said Laurent. “Where do you send the gravid slaves who can no longer perform a dance?”

“You insult me,” said Damen.

Lauren had opened his mouth to reply, when the door to the library burst open. It was one of the palace slaves. She seemed to grasp that she had interrupted something, and bowed to leave again.

“Wait,” said Laurent. “What is your name?”

“Don’t answer that,” said Damen. “Go.” The slave looked terrified and torn between collapsing to the floor and running. She left. “Attacking an unarmed opponent is unbecoming,” said Damen. He left after the slave. Laurent was alone in the library.


	2. Chapter 2

Laurent retired to his room that afternoon and instructed Jord and Orlant that the king of Akielos could only enter if he stepped over their dead bodies on the threshold.

But Damen did not visit. Jord knocked on the door once to tell Laurent that the kitchen had sent up a tray of food, and Laurent replied without opening the door that he was not hungry.

Laurent had made up his mind that the next morning he would depart for Arles, but in the morning Jord told him that he’d received an invitation from General Nikandros to go out riding and to visit the olive groves. Jord hesitated after relaying the message, and added, “General Nikandros mentioned that it would be his pleasure to entertain you while the king spends the day in court.”

Laurent tilted his head, considering, and then nodded decisively. Jord sent one of the servants off to accept the invitation, and Laurent dressed in his riding clothes.

Nikandros was in his middle years, with short trimmed dark hair and a grey beard. He possessed a watchful eye and a calm tongue.

They rode quietly for part of the morning, then walked the horses for a short while through one of the paths of the olive groves.

“You are one of the king’s advisor?” said Laurent.

Nikandros nodded.

“And what topics do you advise him on?” said Laurent.

“Any topics where my years have given me wisdom to share,” said Nikandros.

“And has the king much need of wisdom?” said Laurent.

“You must think I am in need of it, to speak indiscreetly to you about my king.”

Laurent felt his mouth twist in half a smile. “I see the king has a prudent advisor, at least,” said Laurent.

“I will say that this king has less need of wisdom than the last,” said Nikandros. “He does not speak of it often, but King Damianos is not only a fighter, but leads through battles that his father would have lost. Damianos has a clear-sightedness that makes him a man that men will follow on the field, and he wins battles.”

“In Vask,” said Laurent, having heard of the Akielon campaign.

Nikandros nodded. “I do not think many foresaw his success there.”

“And did you?” said Laurent.

They had reached the end of the grove, and the line between the olive trees had opened into a field where sheep were grazing.

Nikandros chuckled. “Well, I had an advantage, in that I often played tafl against him when he was a boy, and therefore had some idea of his strategies before we embarked.”

Nikandros nodded at a shepherd in the field, and the man raised his crook in response. They turned the horses around.

“In Vere,” said Laurent, “There were questions raised around why King Damianos did not continue his Vaskian campaign across the mountains.”

“A good general can win a war,” said Nikandros. “But it takes a good king to know which wars do not need to be fought.”

 

They returned to the keep in time for the justice hearing to finish, and the crowds were dispersing from the courtyard and back into the streets. A groom came to take their horses back to the stables. Laurent dismounted and was at the top of the courtyard steps when Damen himself walked out of the justice hall and into the light. Damen squinted as he came outside, and then recognized Laurent standing in front of him.

“Prince Laurent,” said Damen.

“Cousin,” said Laurent.

There was a drawn out moment. A chicken escaped from the market bobbed past their feet searching for bugs. Nikandros excused himself into the keep with a small bow and they both watched him walk inside. The heavy wooden door swung shut after him.

“Nikandros tells me you are an expert tafl player,” said Laurent.

“Nikandros was a masterful teacher,” said Damen.

“We should play,” said Laurent.

“Did you only come to Akielos to play games, Cousin?” said Damen.

“Unless you are afraid you might lose,” said Laurent.

“I don’t lose,” said Damen.

“Neither do I,” said Laurent. “Care to wager?” The chicken squawked as it located a speck of grain caught between the cobblestones.

Damen raised a hand to shield his eyes from the way the sun reflected off of the roof. “What wager do you suggest?”

Laurent found his eyes drawn to the engraving of a lion above the door of the hall of justice. “Winner fucks loser,” he said, and turned his eyes back to Damen’s face to see his response.

Damen’s eyes widened slightly. “So it is just a game, then,” said Damen.

Laurent was silent.

“After evening meal,” said Damen. “Don’t have too much wine.”

 

Laurent waited, after they ate, for Damen to set a location for their match. Damen stood up after the meal and looked at Laurent for a long moment, seemingly slightly displeased. “The tafl board is in the library,” said Damen finally. They played in the library.

Laurent had no wine, so it was not an excess of drink that led to Damen’s victory. In Vere, Laurent was an unrivaled tafl player. But Nikandros’s praise of his king had not been merely words.

They were not so unevenly matched that the game ended after five turns. But after an hour, it seemed clear that whichever direction Laurent moved, the game was Damen’s in either two to five more moves. Laurent stared at the board intently; he could feel Damen’s eyes on his own face and it distracted him from contemplation.

“In Vere, I have a tafl set made of porcelain,” said Laurent, seeking to break the silence.

“I suppose everything is finer in Vere than it is here,” said Damen.

“No,” said Laurent. “Akielos seems to possess finer tafl players, for example.”

Damen placed his hands on the table and leaned forward over the game board. “I am sick of games.” His voice was hard and intent.

“If you forfeit, then I win,” said Laurent. Damen made a snarling noise and took his turn.

Laurent managed to drag it out for three more turns. Damen drummed his fingers impatiently on the table while Laurent thought and made his counter moves quickly and without hesitation. Finally, Damen tipped over Laurent’s piece and the game was concluded. Winning did not seem to have improved Damen’s disposition.

“Nikandros was right about your skills,” said Laurent, beginning to place the stone pieces back into their fittings in the wooden box.

“If you threw this match,” said Damen, standing up, “because you have some greater scheme, I am warning you –"

“I did not throw the match,” said Laurent. He stayed seated. He could not intimidate men with his physical presence, with his height or his breadth, and it was foolishness to attempt it unsuccessfully. He let Damen lean over him and forced himself to relax insouciantly back in the chair. “Though I am curious about your warning. What is it that you are going to do if you discover I threw the match? Not fuck me? That does not seem in either of our interests.”

Damen turned away from Laurent and took three steps toward the door. Then he stopped, and spoke without turning around. “I will come to you in one hour,” he said, and left.

Laurent returned to his rooms and instructed Jord and Orlant that when the king of Akielos arrived, they should let him in. Jord hesitated; Orlant had a dubious expression. Laurent did not give them time to object, and retreated to his chambers alone. He paced the room between the door and the window, meditating. The moon moved in to the frame of the window. Laurent undressed.

When Damen arrived, Laurent was sitting on the bed, waiting. Damen undressed himself without greeting Laurent, though his eyes rested on Laurent’s body on the bed in the same heavy way they had settled on Laurent during their tafl match.

Damen did not join Laurent on the bed once he was undressed. He stood near the foot of the bed and gestured for Laurent to come to him. Laurent didn’t move.

“Come and please me with your mouth,” said Damen.

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “Make me.”

“I have already won you; I do not need to use force,” said Damen.

“Our wager was for a fuck,” said Laurent. “If you wish other favors you will have to earn them.” He made the words a challenge with the tone of his voice; he could see Damen respond to it with the tension in his body.

He anticipated Damen trying to make him kneel in front of him, because that was what Damen had done the night before, and because that has been inherent in his challenge. It would have been hard for Damen to wrestle him in to that position; Laurent was braced against the bed.

Just as he had in tafl, Damen surprised him. Instead of applying pressure to move Laurent into the position he expected, Damen grabbed his arm and pulled, hard. Laurent was braced to be pushed and found himself susceptible to being pulled. He slid across the bed on his back with his fingers scrabbling in the bedclothes. Damen used his advantage of having caught Laurent off guard and pulled him to the edge of the bed so his head tipped backwards over the edge. Laurent thought he might slide all of the way off of the bed and land on his head; he threw his other arm overhead to brace himself against the floor, but it was too far to reach at that angle. Damen stepped in front of him and Laurent found himself clutching at Damen’s thighs, instead. Damen made an approving noise. Laurent’s mouth was open in surprise; Damen took advantage.

The position favored Damen. Laurent had no control over the depth of Damen’s thrusts, and the angle of his head meant that Damen could thrust deeply. His eyes watered; he closed them. He could feel his fingers tighten on Damen’s thighs reflexively; he forced his grip to loosen.

Damen did not seem to want to finish in his mouth. After a few thrusts Damen stepped back and climbed on to the bed himself. Laurent moved his arms to grasp the bedclothes and wriggled further on to the bed inelegantly. Damen was facing the opposite direction and stroked Laurent lazily. “You like this,” he said, his voice calm and yet somehow devastating.

Laurent didn’t say anything; his cheeks were wet from his eyes watering, his lips were wet with spit. He had never felt like this before.

“Tell me you like it,” said Damen.

Laurent thought he might rather die than admit that to Damen at this particular moment. “Shut up and fuck me.”

Damen seemed determined to surprise him this evening. Damen had surprised him by winning at tafl, by taking his mouth when Laurent had taunted him. And here, Laurent expected Damen not to listen to him, to stroke him and draw it out and perhaps to make Laurent beg. It would likely not have taken much effort. But instead, Damen flipped him on to his stomach.

 

Laurent squirmed, after they were finished and Damen had slipped from his body, but Damen tightened his arms around Laurent’s chest and held him close.

“I do not understand you,” said Damen.

“Am I so hard to understand?” said Laurent.

“I feel as though I approach a beehive,” said Damen, “and I am expecting honey and sweetness, and when I get close I only get stung.”

“Why are you foolish enough to keep approaching a beehive,” said Laurent, squirming again to indicate to Damen that he wished to get up. Damen did not loosen his arms.

“I wish to be a beekeeper,” said Damen. Laurent bit his lip, but his back was to Damen so Damen would not be able to see. He let his body relax, and leaned back slightly into Damen’s embrace.

Damen loosened his arms, finally, and used his hands to stroke Laurent’s skin gently. Laurent let him. Laurent’s face felt taut where the salt tracks had dried on his cheeks. He needed a bath. There was a long moment where the only noise was the caress of Damen’s hand on his arm and the thudding sound of his own pulse where it echoed in his ear across the pillow.

“I want to talk,” said Damen. “I do not understand what you want.”

“I do not want to talk,” said Laurent.

“I –" said Damen, “Was I so far off to think of a match between us? I thought it well suited.”

Laurent forced his way out of Damen’s embrace and sat up with his legs over the side of the bed. “I do not discuss issues of state in bed,” said Laurent.

Damen pushed himself up on one elbow. “I don’t want to talk about issues of state,” said Damen. “I want to talk about us.”

“’Us’ is an issue of state,” said Laurent, pulling on his pants. “I will not discuss it naked in bed. Leave.”

Damen watched him for a long moment. Laurent fought the impulse to pull on the rest of his clothes. Damen eased his way out of the other side of the bed and gathered his own clothes from the foot of the bed, donning them without fuss and without rushing. Once dressed, he hesitated.

“Cousin—” said Damen.

“Why do you persist in calling me that?” said Laurent. “Do you get some perverse joy out of fucking your relations?”

And Laurent himself found a kind of perverse joy in the way that Damen’s face twisted, in the controlled tension of his body as he absorbed the blow. But when Damen turned and left without another word, Laurent found that he was trembling and his cheeks were wet yet again.

 

Laurent learned the next morning at breakfast that the king’s justice hearings were continuing that day, because there were more serious charges that the king had wanted to ensure had sufficient time for contemplation and sentencing.

Laurent decided to sit in the gallery of the justice hall and observe. He questioned his decision when he arrived with Jord to find that the gallery hall was filled with hard wooden benches and no cushions, but at that point it was too late to turn around.

There were three cases. In the first, an apprentice had killed his master, and the life of the apprentice was forfeit. The king indicated that reparations would be made to the master’s widow and small child from the purse, which Laurent understood from the reaction of the crowd to mean from the royal vault.

In the second, a man was accused of beating his niece so severely she could not work. Damen sentenced the man to be beaten himself, and then to serve the hard life of a rower in the navy, with his wages to be sent back to provide for the niece.

The third case gave a particularly hard expression to Damen’s face. Laurent could not follow all of the speaking. An elderly woman who spoke very softly gave testimony; the dispute seemed to be between two soldiers and a boy just on the cusp of manhood. The boy seemed awed by the whole scenario, the king, and the soldiers standing across from him in the hall. Damen questioned the boy intently, and the soldiers in a curt fashion. One of the soldiers cried; he seemed remorseful. The other soldier was disrespectful to the point of spitting in the direction of the king. Damen asked a question of the elderly woman again, and she replied, and then Damen sentenced the remorseful man to be a rower in the navy like the man in the previous trial, and the disrespectful man to death.

Nikandros had seated himself next to Laurent with a nod hello during the second trial. After the third trial, the court adjourned formally. Damen left the hall. The prisoners were led away by the royal guard. The audiences dispersed out the main hall and into the light of the courtyard.

Laurent turned to Nikandros next to him as people were leaving. “I did not follow the charge in the third case,” said Laurent. “What was the crime?”

“Rape,” said Nikandros.

“Of the boy?” said Laurent, for it seemed as though he had been the victim in the testimony.

“Yes,” said Nikandros. “The woman witnessed it, and one of the men confessed.”

“Is it always punished so severely?” said Laurent.

Nikandros stroked his beard, which caused Laurent to want to scratch his own chin, as his stubble had grown to an annoying and unbecoming length. He refrained. “The king is very harsh on that crime,” said Nikandros, “Though perhaps especially so when the victim is only a child and the perpetrators are soldiers. The king holds high expectations for soldiers; he conceives of himself as one and expects them to behave as he does.”

“I see,” said Laurent. The room was almost empty, with Laurent still in his seat, Jord waiting patient next to him, and Nikandros on his other side. “What happens if a man rapes a slave?”

“To rape another man’s slave would be a most vile trespass on his property,” said Nikandros.

“I mean if a man rapes his own slave.”

Nikandros raised one brow. “A man’s slave is his to use; there can be no rape.”

“Men’s baser natures do not ever overcome them,” said Laurent.

“It would be…discouraged,” said Nikandros finally. “Are there no Veretian slaves?”

“No,” said Laurent.

Nikandros changed the subject. “Are you attending the games this afternoon?”

Laurent stood from the bench and swayed his weight from his toes to his heels slightly to stretch. “I am. I understand they are being held in honor of my visit.”

“Yes,” said Nikandros. “We are anxious to impress you.”

 

Laurent wished to be alone, and he traced the same steps he had taken at the beginning of his visit to the private garden that the slave had told him was Damen’s mother’s.

The garden was not empty; there was an old man there, and a young woman. The old man was tending to one of the small plots of herbs, carefully sorting through the leaves and pulling the weeds but leaving the rest of the patch undisturbed. The woman was playing a kithara quietly. When he entered, the woman turned, and she set the kithara down and bowed low to the ground. The man seemed not to observe his entrance.

Laurent said, “I did not realize anyone else was here. I did not mean to disturb you.”

“There is no disturbance,” said the woman. Her voice was clear and beautiful. “We can leave you to enjoy the garden, if you wish.” She reached out to touch the man on the shoulder, and he looked up from his work at her touch. “Arkos is deaf,” she explained to Laurent. The man nodded a greeting elegantly at Laurent, having been alerted to her touch.

“What does your pin signify?” Laurent asked, before realizing that if the man was deaf perhaps asking him questions was impractical. But the man watched his lips carefully as he spoke, and seemed to grasp the question, bending his head to look at his own pin as though reminding himself of what it was.

“This is the pin of Queen Egeria,” said Arkos.

“You served her,” said Laurent.

“I serve her still,” said Arkos. “I keep her garden. I will tend it until the day I die.” The woman nodded approvingly at this show of loyalty. Laurent recognized the pin she wore as the one signifying the slaves who served Damen.

“And how did she inspire such loyalty?” said Laurent.

Arkos’s eyebrow raised. “My lady was lovely,” he said thoughtfully. “She was kind. She never raised her voice. She had so many years of hoping for a child, and yet she never complained.”

Laurent turned to the woman. “What is your name?”

“Lykaios, your highness,” she said.

“Lykaios, what do you think of your master?

Her eyes widened. “He is very kind, your highness.”

“Does he ever ask you to do anything you find distasteful?” said Laurent.

“No, your highness,” she said.

Laurent made a thoughtful noise. He sat on the bench. Arkos returned to his gardening. He had grace even at his age, weeding in the garden; Laurent supposed that Arkos had been a dancer in his youth.

Lykaios sat next to him, seemingly content to quietly enjoy the garden.

The air was heavy with the hum of insects punctuated by the occasional call of a bird. Laurent closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the sun on his face. He took one breath and then another.

His eyes flicked open again when Lykaios put a gentle hand on his ankle. He looked down to see her fingers graceful on his leg. She glanced up at him through her eyelashes. “Could I please you, your highness?” she said.

“Please me,” said Laurent.

“My master has told us to extend to you every hospitality,” she said. “I could pleasure you.”

Laurent had opened his mouth to reply. That was the moment that Damen entered the garden. Damen’s eyes moved around the garden and halted when they came upon Laurent. Laurent could see Damen start to call him cousin, catch himself, and reframe the word his lips were making before he voiced it. “Laurent,” said Damen. “I would like to speak to you.”

Lykaios had lowered her eyes respectfully, but her hand was still on his ankle. “I am occupied,” said Laurent.

Damen’s jaw set stubbornly. “Could we speak later?”

“Perhaps,” said Laurent.

Arkos finished with one of the patches of herbs and stood to move to another segment of the garden. He bowed respectfully at Damen and Damen nodded, looking distracted.

“Later,” said Damen firmly.

Laurent tilted his head to the side and did not say anything. After a moment he dismissed Damen from his notice and turned his eyes to Lykaios at his feet. She was by all measures very lovely. Her features were well-shaped, her hair fell in delicate golden curls. Her skin was slightly darker than Laurent’s own, touched by the sun, and her form was one of soft curves.

He heard Damen’s footsteps retreat. Lykaios peaked up at him through her eyelashes again. He smiled at her, feeling fond, and her lips curved back at him.

“Thank you,” he said to her, for somehow, he felt that they understood each other, and he excused himself.

 

Akielons were apparently more concerned with comfort as they watched their sport than they were as they witnessed justice, for the benches of the ring had cushions.

Laurent’s primary concession to the heat and the sun was to wear a lighter color than he usually preferred. The Akielons were stripped down; they did in fact fight nude, and those sitting to watch wore light tunics.

“I heard the king himself will fight in the games,” said Orlant. Jord made an interested noise, and Laurent made no acknowledgement. Orlant continued. “He is apparently as like to bed a soldier who catches his eye as one of the palace slaves.”

“They seem to dress the same,” said Jord, mildly, meaning the near nakedness of the palace slave and the nudity of the fighters.

“And who is it that you are gossiping with, to learn such facts?” said Laurent, and Orlant quieted.

“I wish an answer,” said Laurent.

“A woman I met in the market,” said Orlant.

“And am I going to have to turn you off because you have an Akielon bastard?” said Laurent, watching as the second match began in the ring.

“I—" said Orlant, before Jord elbowed him into silence.

“Please continue,” said Laurent.

“I thought we might stay.”

Laurent turned toward Orlant, and Orlant stared back at him defiantly. Jord looked blankly ahead as though if he stared hard enough at the ring he could ignore what was happening right next to him.

“My brother works in the armory, so I know that Auguste had him fetch the ring. And all of the servants here are planning for a royal wedding. I thought it fair odds that we might stay in Akielos, and that I might take an Akielon wife.”

Laurent considered and turned over a dozen words on his tongue before he spoke. “You are too smart for your position,” he said.

“I am under-utilized,” said Orlant.

“Perhaps so,” said Laurent. “Tell me what other gossip you have learned.”

Orlant shared other gossip he had heard from various sources around the keep while they watched a series of four separate matches. Each match had its own form of scoring. Some had chalk rubbed on the wooden swords, and played to three marks. That was the kind of match they were playing when the king came out as one of the combatants. Damen was a popular fighter, waving at the stands as they shouted back at him. He was an amazing swordsman, and a good sport when his opponent landed a good blow.

Laurent watched Damen in the ring, and had a feel for how he moved and fought, and so when the match concluded amongst much applause, Laurent stood and turned to Jord and Orlant sitting next to him. “Let me out.”

Jord stood to let him pass. Orlant did the same but gave Laurent a wary glance that reminded Laurent too much of Auguste.

Laurent made his way down to the ring, and he stood across from Damen on the other side of the fence that separated the fighters from the audience. “Do you care for another match?” he said to Damen.

Damen wiped sweat from his own forearm with the back of his hand. “Are you going to strip down to fight with us barbarians?”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Laurent, slipping through the middle bars of the fence to emerge on the other side. He accepted a short wooden sword and small shield from the departing participant, and allowed one of the boys who helped the games cover the sword again with chalk.

The match began, and they circled each other warily in the ring, amidst cheers from the audience. Laurent got a first mark during an early sally, and Damen the second, as they each felt out the style of the other in the ring.

“Would you care to make another wager?” said Laurent, and used the distraction of his words to achieve his second chalk mark, this one against Damen’s lower leg.

“No,” said Damen, having retreated a few steps. His voice adopted a different tone, a tone of command that expected to be obeyed. “Throw the match,” said Damen.

Laurent defended against one of Damen’s attacks, and each of them escaped unscathed. “I will not,” said Laurent.

“You did yesterday, and you will today,” said Damen. “You will do as I say.”

“That is false,” said Laurent, “I will not.” He demonstrated as much with a particularly quick move that caught Damen’s open side with a third chalk mark. The move was not necessarily a good one for a true swordfight, for it unbalanced Laurent to catch him, and he stumbled slightly into Damen after, which would have left him open to be stabbed if they had fought with true weapons. But it was the perfect move to win the game, and the crowd cheered for him. Damen settled him with hands on his waist, and when Laurent took a step back and caught Damen’s face, he could see that Damen was grinning at him broadly.

“Congratulations,” said Damen, shaking his hand and pulling him into a half-embrace. Laurent became acutely aware of the fact that Damen was not wearing any clothes.

They turned their weapons back in for the next set of participants, and Laurent accepted a tin full of water and a towel to wipe the sweat from his face. He made his way through the stands, accepting congratulations from various men amongst the crowd, and sat down next to Jord and Orlant again, only to find Damen picking his way through the crowd a few feet behind. Damen settled himself next to Laurent to watch the remainder of the match. He had pulled on a light tunic but he still had a chalk mark on his upper arm and another showing on his lower leg.

 

They ate well, that evening. Damen proposed a toast to Laurent’s victory in their match, so Laurent smirked back at him and drank to the toast to himself. After dinner there were entertainments, and Laurent found himself uninterested in watching a stylized battle dance acted out by slave dancers after having watched a more aggressive version of the same thing all afternoon. He made his excuses and stood up to slip away.

Damen caught up to him just outside the dinner hall. “I would like to talk with you. Please.”

Laurent was silent as Damen led him to a private alcove. A curtain separated the alcove from the corridor; there was a small bench and a painted mural on the wall.

“I do not wish for us to misunderstand each other,” said Damen. “I am sincere in my intentions. I,” he swallowed, “understand that I have caused some offense; I wish to remedy it. Just, please, help me to know what I have done.”

“It is not you,” said Laurent. “It is Akielos.” He gestured with his hand as though to indicate everything around them.

“I am Akielos,” said Damen. “If Melitta, if any one of my slaves offends you, she can be sent away—"

“How would that be better?” said Laurent. “Will you send me away if I displease you? Is it better to have a bastard you never know? Or is being sent away some delicate phrase for –"

Damen looked horrified, and did not let Laurent continue to what it might be a delicate phrase for. “I do not have any children, Laurent.”

Laurent scoffed. “I know you are not impotent.”

“There are methods, that women know, to keep from conceiving a child.” Laurent’s expression did not change, and Damen continued. “Herbs,” said Damen, “Honey, the fruit of the lemon tree.”

“And these methods,” said Laurent, “they work always?”

“No,” said Damen, “But a man should not have a slave if he could not afford to care for her children. And I could provide for them, they would never go hungry or be neglected. I would not separate a mother and her child.”

The wall of the alcove was stone blocks painted with a scene of a man kneeling in front of a woman. The woman wore a crown.

“Laurent.” Damen’s voice had lowered, he spoke quietly. “Can I remedy the offense I have given?”

“If—" Laurent took a breath. He could not say it, and rephrased. “If you were to wed a Veretian, and he brought a pet with him to your household?”

Damen’s brows creased. “I would have no objection.”

Laurent observed that the man kneeling in front of the woman also wore a crown. He wondered if they were figures from some Akielon story or history.

Damen took Laurent’s hand in his own. “Will you come to my bedroom tonight, Laurent?”

Laurent opened his mouth to reply and hesitated.

“Please,” said Damen, stroking his thumb along the back of Laurent’s hand entreatingly. Damen raised one of his own hands to Laurent’s face and traced along the start of his beard. “I will shave this for you and you can cease itching.”

Laurent had a retort in his head about how he had expected to itch during a visit to a barbarian keep, but he found himself saying, simply, “Yes.” Damen’s smile grew on his face as a flower opened to the sun in the morning.

“Actually,” said Damen. “I find myself realizing that I am quite tired and I think we should retire right now.”

Laurent could still picture the way the smile had formed on Damen’s face, and found himself helpless to say anything else, and let Damen tug on his hand and lead him off toward Damen’s rooms.

The shaving things were already set out on Damen’s dressing table when they arrived, and there was no sign of any of Damen’s women. Damen sat Laurent down next to the dressing table and proceeded to fuss over him as he had the first night Laurent had been there, applying a warm towel to his face, lathering it, and inspecting his blade.

“You still have a chalk mark on your arm,” said Laurent suddenly, because it was right in front of his face and he could see little else.

“Hush,” said Damen. “If you keep talking I will cut you by mistake.” Laurent forced himself to hold still as Damen tilted his face from side to side and turned back and forth from the dressing table as he worked.

Damen seemed pleased with his work when he was finished. Laurent ran his own hands over his face to inspect it. Damen swiped at the chalk mark on his arm with one of the towels.

Something passed over Damen’s face, suddenly, and he crossed the room and tossed the towel into a basket. Laurent watched him from his seat at the dressing table.

Damen turned from the other side of the room to regard Laurent. “Come here and kneel,” said Damen.

Laurent did not move from his spot. “You forget that I won today, Cousin,” he said.

“Kneel,” Damen repeated.

Laurent face own expression twist. “You push me too far.”

“Kneel,” said Damen.

Laurent crossed the room and stood an arms-length distance from Damen. He felt the moment where he might have gone to his knees come and pass, and he did not reach for it. He looked up, instead, because he had to look up to look Damen in the eye when they stood close together. “No.”

He was not sure what he expected. He did not think that Damen would strike him – Damen was not the type of man to strike in this situation. But he thought his displeasure might show on his face; that he might show his disappointment. He might send Laurent away, or worse, feign continued interest when Laurent could tell Damen was not satisfied.

That was not what happened. What happened, instead, was the same slow blossom of Damen’s smile that had emerged when Laurent had said “yes” earlier in the evening, and Damen slid to his own knees in front of Laurent.

Damen reached out his hands to take Laurent’s in his, and then he looked up at Laurent’s face from his posture on his knees. “Marry me,” said Damen.

The room was warm from the heat of the sun all day, but Laurent felt as though he were frozen. “I am not going to kneel in front of you,” said Laurent.

Damen was still smiling. “Perhaps sometimes I can convince you it is worth your while.”

Laurent opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

“Marry me,” said Damen, squeezing his hands with a brief pressure. “You are the most amazing, confounding, intelligent and beautiful man I have ever met. I want you as my husband.”

Laurent found his tongue again. “I – you would need my brother’s permission.”

“I want your permission,” said Damen.

If Damen had not had a grasp on his hands, Laurent might have stepped away. There were too many thoughts in his head and his heart seemed determined to beat several times for each one of them; he felt ill. “I love you,” he said suddenly, and then wondered if he could blame the red that flushed his face on a dull blade from the razor.

“Good,” said Damen evenly. “That will be helpful if we are to get married. I am still waiting for you to say yes.”

“I have never been accused of being particularly sweet,” said Laurent.

Damen’s eyes crinkled a little at the corners. “I have noticed,” said Damen. “But a beekeeper must be stung a few times each year so that the poison does not affect him too badly, and he will tolerate the stings because he knows of the honey the bees are tending.” Damen pulled Laurent’s hands to his face and kissed each one of them gently. “Please, Laurent, do me the honor of consenting to be my husband.”

Laurent had words – they had to do with bees and honey and poison – but for the second time that evening he found himself simply saying yes.

 

Niese insisted on making the journey to be present for Laurent’s wedding, even though she was very old and Auguste was worried. She proclaimed that she was stronger than any ship and that nothing was going to stop her from a royal wedding feast. Once in Akielos, she terrorized all of the kitchen staff and served honey cakes at the wedding feast, which caused Damen to laugh a great deal. Then when Laurent opened his mouth to say something cutting in response, Damen shoved half a cake in his mouth and Laurent had to chew through the stickiness and tolerate Damen bussing a sticky kiss on his cheek at the same time.

Damen presented Laurent with the library as a gift. The curtains were open and the books were dusted and the room was bright with sunshine. The tafl board and pieces had been polished and set up on display. “We must play again some time,” said Damen, as he made his presentation, gesturing at the board.

Laurent made a humming noise. “And what would the stakes be?”

“I have some ideas,” said Damen.

In addition to the library, Damen presented Laurent with a golden ring fitted to his finger, and decorated with a lion-head and tiny-jeweled eyes. “Oh, so I can wear your sign just like all of the slaves of your household.”

Damen, who had already slid onto his own finger the ring Laurent had brought from Vere, rolled his eyes. “You are the head of my house, and wear the same ring that I do myself,” said Damen.

Auguste had brought Amelie and Joie, and Joie chewed on the ears of the soft fox Laurent had produced for her while she bounced on Auguste’s lap.

“Laurent,” said Auguste. “I hope you are certain about this.”

They had already said vows and exchanged gifts and we well into the celebratory feasting by the time Auguste said this, so Laurent raised a brow. “It is a bit late if I am not.”

“Your letters were a bit puzzling. First you write that you have arrived, and everything is going well, and then you write that you’ve been insulted and are departing the next day. Then you write that you decided to stay, without ever clarifying how you were insulted or what happened, and then when I am just thinking whether I am going to need to send an army to the heart of Akielos to avenge you, you send a wedding invitation.” Auguste’s frustration was evident in his voice. Joie raised her hands to pat at his face consolingly.

“Yes,” said Laurent, opening his arms to Joie as she reached out to him from her father’s lap. “That was about how it went.”

 

_Epilogue_

Damen held up the half of the lemon smeared with honey. “You see?”

Laurent made a face. Lykaios giggled, but her laughed changed to something more deeply pleasurable as Damen slipped the lemon rind inside of her and caressed her with his fingers as he removed them.

“That does not seem comfortable,” said Laurent.

“Do not worry, my lord,” said Lykaios. “It does not affect your pleasure.”

“Here, here,” said Damen, giving Lykaios a last caress and turning his hands to Laurent. He maneuvered Laurent on the bed until Laurent was between Lykaios’s spread thighs. Damen knelt behind him and pushed on his shoulder until Laurent settled his forearms on to the bed near Lykaios’s face and settled his weight on them. Lykaios twined her arms around the back of his neck.

Laurent closed his eyes. He could feel Damen’s hand caressing him now, stroking him, preparing him, and then Damen was shifting him again, positioning him, and Lykaios was tilting her hips obligingly, and he sunk in to her. Laurent gasped.

“There, you see?” said Damen, as though he had made his point. Lykaios tipped her hips, and Laurent sunk a bit deeper. He bit his lip. Lykaios urged him in to a quiet rhythm.

Damen stopped them after a moment, stilling Laurent’s hips and using his fingers to prepare Laurent for penetration. Laurent pressed his forehead against Lykaios’s shoulder. She hummed pleasantly.

Damen moved in more closely behind him, and then, holding himself quite still, Laurent could feel the familiar sensation of Damen positioning himself, of that first thrust in.

Damen made a noise of satisfaction; his voice blended with Lykaios’s in Laurent’s ears. Damen and Lykaios were speaking, they were urging each other into a synchronized rhythm. Laurent could not make sense of their words. Laurent felt as though he was a wave caught between the sand and the ocean, that the rhythm had consumed him, it was washing over him, and he could resist no longer and he spilled with a cry of his own.

Damen kept his own rhythm, but Laurent stopped him with a hand on his hip. “I want to turn over,” said Laurent. Damen let him rise up from on top of Lykaios, and he rolled on to his back Damen settled one of Laurent’s legs on his shoulder and repositioned himself to thrust in, leaning in close to brush his lips along Laurent’s cheek before seeking his own finish in earnest. If they had been alone Laurent had no doubt that Damen would have teased him for the sweetness of wanting to see Damen’s face when Damen finished, but he let Laurent have his moment without comment while Lykaios was in the bed with them. She watched Damen, idly, carding a hand through Laurent’s hair soothingly. Damen finished, finally, with a groan and three uneven final thrusts. He caught his breath.

Laurent and Lykaios played cat and mouse with their hands on the bed, Laurent reaching out to have Lykaios pull her fingers back. When he held his hand close to himself, she would drift her fingers closer on the bed until he moved again.

Damen moved on the bed again until he was back between Lykaios’s spread thighs. “See,” he said to Laurent, gesturing, and then he lowered his face to taste of her.

Laurent made a face again; he was not at all convinced. Damen leaned in to kiss him despite Laurent’s moue of distaste. “She tastes of you,” said Damen.

“And lemon,” said Laurent.

Damen laughed. “You cannot taste the lemon.”

“Perhaps if you tasted again,” said Lykaios encouragingly.

“Your turn,” said Damen to Laurent.


End file.
